


The Spark And The Wolf

by ladyoneill



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bonding, Good Peter Hale, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Nemeton, Season/Series 03, Sex Magic, Slow Build, Spark Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-12 04:25:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4465388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyoneill/pseuds/ladyoneill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter and Stiles are drawn to the Nemeton and a bond that formed between a spark and a wolf on a certain night in a garage grows stronger. Stiles begins to have frightening dreams of power and destruction. Peter sees in him something he lost years before with his grandmother and agrees to anchor and help him. What starts as a teacher/apprentice relationship grows into something much more as the Nemeton starts attracting the supernatural that threaten the town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spark And The Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Stiles/Peter Big Bang (and actually begun a couple years ago) this is set right after Season 3A with no possession of Stiles, no Nogitsune, no Benefactor, no Kate, no evil Peter. The rest of the Pack is there on the periphery, including Liam, Mason and Brett because I brought them in earlier than the show (so they're only one year behind the main teens in school)--but this is almost entirely Peter and Stiles being snarky and sassy with each other. The magic is completely made up; the cardinal directions and centering, not so much. The bonding is NOT a mate bond (must be a first for me). Stiles is sixteen and his relationship with Peter is consensual. If that bothers you, please hit the back button. From alternating POVs.
> 
> I was gifted with a fantastic artist who put up with my horrible procrastination, CloveeD. The link to the art is [here](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/steter_big_bang_round1/works/4476587). Go slather on the love!

Lifting his hand he watches the blood slide from his claws, down his fingers, over his knuckles to stain the back of his hand. With a flick of his wrist more blood goes flying onto the huge stump and he watches as a tiny green shoot unfurls from its center. At his feet, the woman dies with a harsh rattle of breath and another gush of blood. Around her more green sprouts appear.

The final sacrifice.

Interesting.

Will the evil she did turn the Nemeton evil as well? Or will it remain neutral as it was in the days of his childhood, before the druids were slaughtered, leaving it to wither and die over long years of neglect. He remembers coming here as a very young cub to play beneath the huge boughs of healthy green leaves while his grandmother fed it her blood. He wonders if he's the only one left to know that Magda Hale was a druid priestess. That she wasn't a wolf. Her blood runs in his veins.

Her magic saved him.

Werewolves are creatures of magic. They can't perform magic. But, he's special. His grandmother always said he was of two worlds, and now, while the wolf in him is weak, the magic grows stronger every day.

Eyes flashing a brilliant blue, Peter tips his head and howls to the full moon as the power of the returning Nemeton rolls through him.

*****

Stiles awakens with a jolt, panting harshly and flailing before he remembers where he is. The hospital, sitting next to his sleeping father. Pressing a hand to his chest and feeling the rapid beat of his heart, he checks to make sure his father is still okay, still asleep, still alive. Relieved, he sinks back into the uncomfortable chair and lets his mind drift again. His heart calms, but he still feels odd.

Remembering Deaton's warning, Stiles wonders if the sacrifice he made is already affecting him and, if so, what will he become? What does having a darkness around his heart mean? Will he go dark side? Or lose his temper more easily? Or just be a bastard to people? Gnawing on the cuticle of one thumb he ponders each idea and wishes he'd gotten a more comprehensive answer from the vet.

Heh.

Yeah, like that would ever happen.

Just as he begins to doze off again, his phone vibrates in his pants' pocket and he fumbles for it, swiping the screen to find a text message from Derek.

Derek has his phone number?

Derek knows how to text?

**Cora and I are leaving for a while.**

Sent as a mass text to a bunch of numbers he recognizes and a few he doesn't.

Great, just what they need. With the Alpha gone, there's sure to be an influx of something wanting to eat his face.

But, then Stiles remembers one of the things Scott babbled at him--Derek's no longer an Alpha.

And Scott is.

Great.

*****

For the first few weeks Peter watches them from the shadows, this new Pack, led by the rarest of the rare. The twins have fallen to Beta. Isaac has fallen easily into the role of Second. Scott leads by doing very little. Nothing threatens them, so the teens simply hang out together. He know of the triple sacrifice and wonders at its effects. The Alpha and the Huntress seem normal enough.

But, the boy, the human, there's a difference there. On the face, he's the same--mouthy, bright, humorous--but Peter can see beneath the mask to the confusion beneath.

Stiles feels something is different in himself and he doesn't know how to deal with it. So, he continues to play the clown with moments of insightful brilliance, continues to trail around after the banshee, although Peter can see past the illusion there, too--Stiles is definitely over the girl--and is the power behind the Alpha.

Not that the Alpha is using any of his power. Not even to train.

Which Peter finds incredibly naive because something is coming. Something is always coming. Each dawn finds him at the growing Nemeton. Winter is just around the corner and yet it continues to sprout new branches and leaves in defiance of the growing cold. He remembers his grandmother telling him the reason behind the town's name, that the Nemeton draws them all here, both good and bad, that her people keep the balance and the wolves enforce it when necessary.

Peter's not sure he can trust Scott and his ragtag pack to protect the town and his own power is still uncertain.

Fourteen days after he killed the Darach, he approaches the tree to find he's not its first visitor of the day.

*****

Stiles feels off. On the surface everything seems fine, better than fine with his dad now in the know, the lies all out in the open, the grounding perfunctory and given with a hug that lasted several minutes. School is school. His friends are all healthy, and lacrosse practice is about to begin. Lydia's still dating Aidan and Stiles is fine with that, his crush reduced to a strong friendship. In the incestuousness of high school cliques, Isaac and Allison are now together and while Scott is jealous, he's okay enough with it that he and Isaac can joke around and he can smile at Allison.

But, Stiles still feels different. Not evil. He doesn't want to slaughter anyone. He's not having nightmares of becoming a serial killer or anything, but there's a weird flutter in his stomach and sometimes he can smell the woods even when he's inside. His dreams are weird. Most he doesn't remember, but knows that they're trying to tell him something. The others are of his mother and when he awakens from those he's inevitably crying. He hasn't dreamed of her since right after her death.

Fourteen days into what he considers a new, monster free life, Stiles awakens with a start and a compulsion has him dressing and leaving the house just before dawn. Before he realizes, he's parked his jeep and hiked into the Preserve only to find something that defies explanation.

The stump of the Nemeton is covered with saplings, all twining together, the tallest no more than three feet. More grow around it, all green and alive despite the cold wind that sends shivers through him.

This is impossible.

"Stiles?"

Spinning around and nearly tripping over his feet he gapes at Peter.

*****

Watching from the shadows of a large maple tree, Peter wonders why the boy is here so early in the morning, shivering from the cold. He can almost feel his bafflement at the sight of the growing tree, watches as Stiles scratches his head, frowns. Deep inside himself, his wolf stirs, growls not in anger or as a warning, but...

Peter steps out of the shadows and calls his name.

It's almost amusing to watch the boy flail. Almost, but not quite, because Peter feels something else stir alongside his wolf. 

Power.

Calling to like.

As he realizes that he and Stiles stand at the base of the living Nemeton in two of the cardinal directions--Stiles in the North and he himself in the East--a wind picks up and the earth shakes.

Interesting.

Stiles barely gets out a yell of shock and fear before the power subsides and Peter is on him, grabbing his wrists before he can hit out, pinning him to his body.

"Let me go!" Stiles demands, both fear and anger in his golden eyes.

Peter bares his teeth.

There’s something here...

In an instant, the sky goes dark then opens up, drenching them both in ice cold rain. Stiles' shivers turn to shudders, his teeth chattering loudly, his lips turning pale as his cheeks go ruddy.

Power floods Peter and, on instinct, he shifts, picks up the boy, and runs.

*****

The icy rain stole his strength and he can’t talk around the chattering teeth, so Stiles is unable to protest as Peter bundles him into the passenger side of his jeep, snags the keys from his hoodie pocket, and climbs behind the wheel. As soon as the engine turns over, the werewolf cranks the heat. He can't find the energy to protest that it won't do any good. The heat hasn't worked right in over a year.

Huddling in his drenched clothes, too miserable to be scared, he presses his cheek to the worn nylon cover of the seat as Peter speeds from the parking lot.

Still, being out of the rain helps a bit and he stops shaking so hard. Burying his hands in his armpits, he winces as cold water drips down the neck of his shirts and jacket. Slowly he glances over at Peter and makes a disgusted noise when he realizes the wolf doesn’t even feel the cold or wet.

When he realizes they’re heading for the opposite side of town from his house, he opens his mouth to protest.

Peter cuts him off before he can get past 'hey'. 

"We need to talk."

"Yeah, no. Take me home. Or, y'know, get out of my car and let me drive myself home."

Peter rolls his eyes at him and Stiles snarls in response.

"This is kidnaping."

"Peter, stop the car!"

When the wolf ignores him, the fear comes back in a rush, and Stiles remembers the last time Peter forced him to go somewhere in this jeep with him. His breathing quickens to pants and he grabs the door handle, half prepared to fling himself from the moving vehicle.

Peter's hand on his wrist stills him. "Calm down," he says softly, and Stiles can feel something behind the words. Something...powerful that reverberates through him.

And he feels his heart beat slow, his panting even out. He stares at the hand on his wrist, feels its warmth melting his frozen skin, and he stares at Peter in confusion.

They pull to a stop at a red light and Stiles doesn't try to get out of the car.

*****

His wolf is rumbling in contentment, but Peter the man is confused. Now that he's sure the boy won't throw himself from the car, he lets his mind drift back to that night in the garage. Something then had drawn him to Stiles. His courage at standing up to the Alpha had impressed him enough to offer him the bite rather than just take it. While there'd been mild disappointment at his refusal, Peter had been focused on a larger goal, and he could always come back for Stiles later.

Fire and his nephew's claws had taken that opportunity from him, but maybe not completely.

Pulling into the parking lot of the small but exclusive apartment complex, he parks the jeep in the second of his covered spots and turns off the engine.

"Where are we?"

"My place."

Stiles' eyes are wide, a bit lost, and Peter frowns. The boy looks tired, no exhausted.

Stepping out of the jeep, Peter rounds the back and opens the door for Stiles, then practically lifts him out. As he stumbles into Peter, the older man feels just how wet and cold they both are, and curses beneath his breath before hurrying them both across the lot to the door. Thankfully there's an overhang that shelters them from the storm for the minute it takes to key in the code and open the door.

Warmth hits and Stiles collapses with a moan.

Peter has no clue how to deal with hypothermia, but, as he scoops him up and takes the stairs two at a time, he hopes that hot tea and dry clothes will help. He has to put him down to dig out his keys, and Stiles nearly crumples to the floor, but then they're inside and headed directly into the master bedroom, through it and into the bath. Propping the boy up against the counter, Peter grabs towels then starts to strip him.

The wet jacket and shirts go into the tub and, as he reaches for the belt, Stiles grabs at him.

"Whu--ngh." He's shivering again, and taking a towel, Peter wraps it around his shoulders, making note of the quivering muscles and the broader width.

Not so much a boy anymore.

*****

Realizing he's half naked and Peter's reaching for his belt buckle, Stiles comes out of his stupor and grabs at the wolf with numb fingers. Peter's soaking wet, too, and cold, and Stiles flinches, but there's something wrong with this picture. After making unintelligible noises and sinking into the warmth and softness of a towel around his torso, he finally manages to form a phrase.

"Can do it m'self."

"Are you back with me now?"

"Pissoff."

Snorting, Peter steps back, waits a moment to make sure Stiles doesn't topple over, then efficiently strips off his own clothes, tossing them in the tub as well.

"Ack! Naked zombiewolf!"

Amused, he towels off the excess water and watches color finally find the boy's pale cheeks as his eyes shift everywhere but Peter.

"I'm going to get dressed and fetch you something to wear. If you're still wearing those wet jeans when I come back, I'll hold you down and peel you out of them."

The flush deepens.

Peter finds it annoyingly attractive.

Leaving the bathroom, he hears Stiles muttering to himself, but also the sound of a zipper, so he quickly dresses in jeans and a thick blue henley, adding warm socks, before pulling a pair of track pants and an old Berkeley sweatshirt out of his bottom drawer, along with a second pair of socks. Reentering the bathroom, Peter finds Stiles huddled on the closed toilet, wrapped in two towels, his pale bare feet tucked up beneath him. He places the clothes on the counter.

"Get dressed. I'll make some tea and something hot to eat."

There's some leftover potato soup he can heat up. Not exactly breakfast food, but hearty. Hopefully it will keep Stiles from going hypothermic and put some meat on his bones.

Despite the muscles, he's too thin.

Peter frowns.

*****

Dressing quickly, Stiles makes a face at the lack of underwear--not that he'd ever wear Peter's--but his are as soaked as the rest of his clothes. The pants and top are too big, but warm, and he finally stops shivering. A glance in the mirror shows him that there's more color in his face and his lips, though pinched, are no longer nearly blue.

Where had the bizarre storm come from? He vaguely remembers that the weather forecast had been for cloudy skies but no rain.

And that earthquake.

A shudder not related at all to the cold goes through him. There's something weird going on. There's something weird going on in his head.

Why isn't he leaving? Grabbing his keys and his phone and getting the Hell out of here? Why is he letting Peter dictate his choices?

Frowning even more, Stiles digs through the wet clothes and finds his phone. Thankfully, it's waterproof, though his fingers are still numb enough that he fumbles with unlocking it.

It's not even eight in the morning.

When did he get up and head for the Preserve and the Nemeton? And, more importantly, why?

His thumb brushes over the weather app, turning it on, and he stares at the forecast.

No rain.

Finally, Stiles drags himself out of the bathroom, ignores the huge bed in the bedroom, and stumbles down the short hall to the open plan living room and kitchen. Dimly he notes the decor--expensive, chrome and glass and bright, vivid colors, though no reds or yellows. Mostly blues, greens, silvers. Cool colors, but the place is warm and oddly inviting.

There are two chrome and teal green stools drawn up to the bar separating the living space and the large, modern kitchen, and he hauls himself up onto one as Peter places a mug of tea and a bowl of creamy soup in front of him.

"I should go home."

Or school.

No, wait, it's Saturday. Jesus, when did he start getting the days confused?

"Eat."

Stiles obeys.

*****

Interesting, Peter thinks. He didn't even use a command voice, and the boy picks up the spoon, dips it into the bowl, blows on the contents, and slurps it down. Leaning back against the counter by the sink, Peter eats his own soup, his manner much more dignified, but it is good soup, and he's inordinately pleased by Stiles' enjoyment of it.

"This is good," he mangles around the spoon.

"Don't talk with your mouth full."

Peter's not at all surprised by the eye roll he gets, and he's--well, relieved may be the word for it, but he's not really happy about that--that Stiles is obviously feeling better. When the boy puts down the spoon in the empty bowl and chugs the tea, Peter sets aside his own empties and waits for the inevitable questions.

"Why were you at the Nemeton?"

"Why were you?" he retorts.

That seems to throw Stiles who gives him a blank look before muttering, "Not really sure." He rubs his temples, then slides from the stool, turning his back on Peter. "I need to go home." He startles. "Well, shit."

Following his eyes, Peter sees him looking out the French doors. The sky is nearly as black as night and the rain is still coming down in torrents. "It doesn't look like you're going anywhere for a while," he says pleasantly. "Why don't you make yourself comfortable in the living room while I throw our wet clothes in the washer."

Returning to the main room ten minutes later, Peter's not surprised to find Stiles slumped on his royal blue leather couch, socked feet up on the glass coffee table, as he plays with his phone.

"I know you weren't raised in a barn." A pointed look at the feet, and Stiles rolls his eyes again, but lowers them to the floor. Pleased, Peter sits in his favorite chair and crosses one leg over the knee of the other, steepling his fingers in front of his lips.

"You look like a malevolent dictator when you do that."

"Just the look I was going for."

"Why were you at the Nemeton and why is it growing?"

Ignoring the first part of the question, he answers the second. "It was never dead, just dormant, in shock from being brutally chopped down. My guess is that the sacrifices brought it back."

"Yeah, okay, I can see that, but it's nearly winter and it's acting like it's the height of summer."

Peter shrugs his shoulders. "Magic."

"Is it dangerous?"

"Of course, but not, I think, for you."

Stiles' eyes widen. "What do you mean?"

"What do you know about Nemeta in general?"

"Um...They're sacred sites, primarily for Druids and other earth based religions. Those who believe in that sort of thing say they're vessels for power that the believers can draw from. The power itself is neutral, but can be used for good or evil." He pauses for a minute, then mumbles, "I died there."

Peter knows all about the triple sacrifice, though from second and third hand sources, and he has to admit to being a bit impressed. Not with the Alpha's or the Huntress', but this kid...This human boy.

"Was this the first time you went there since that night?"

"Outside of my dreams," Stiles admits reluctantly.

"Did you know that just before dawn there was a convergence of certain stars and the crescent moon?"

"Not really into astronomy."

"You should be. Stiles, how much do you know about your mother's family?" When he learned about the mountain ash circle extending far past the amount Stiles was given, Peter asked certain questions to certain contacts in central Europe."

"Why?" 

So suspicious. "Humor me, and if you keep rolling your eyes, they're going to get stuck that way."

There's a bark of laughter, then Stiles briefly states, "Her parents grew up together in some tiny town in Romania and got married and came to the States before she was born. They ended up in San Francisco and owned a restaurant. I didn't know them, they died before I was born. Not really sure how. Mom rarely talked about them, and dad didn't know them well. Mom was an only child. I think I remember her saying her parents were both only children, too."

"Runs in the family."

"Yeah, I guess. What's this got to do with anything, and, again, why am I here?" Stiles' voice goes hard at the end. Whatever else he is, he has a backbone. Again, Peter recalls the niggling of respect and interest from that night on the playing field and in the garage.

Maybe it's time to pursue that.

Before he can respond, Stiles' phone rings, blaring out 'the sheriff's on my tail and if he catches up with me, I'll spend my life in jail'.

"Interesting choice. The Dead. Not Marley?"

"Too easy." As he answers, he rises and goes into the kitchen. Peter politely doesn't eavesdrop. When he returns, he's frowning. "Dad said to stay wherever I am. The storm's insane. Probably should have told him it's supernatural."

He's obviously worried, glancing at the door as he retakes his seat. Peter's not about to let him bolt.

"Your father will be fine. The storm will pass."

"Platitudes, lovely. Why the questions about my family?"

"Did you know I was acquainted with your mother?"

Stiles' jaw drops open, his eyes widen. It's just lovely.

Peter can't resist the smirk, and that causes a spark to light in those amber eyes as they narrow and his jaw clicks shut.

"Not well, but in passing. She was friendly with Talia. Your mother knew."

"Knew what?" he stammers, confusion warring with awareness in his eyes.

"What we are."

"No."

Now Peter grins. "Yes. Claudia knew because her family always knew the wolves in the land. She and her parents might have denied their heritage, but she, at least, couldn't deny the truth."

"Stop talking in fucking riddles!"

"Your mother is the descendent of two druidic families. They weren't just from Romania, they were from Transylvania, and while vampires are a myth, the werewolves of those mountains are not. Her ancestors had served as their emissaries for centuries."

Stiles gapes again, then rubs his temple, shaking his head. "She...she never said..."

"You were a child," Peter says a bit more kindly. 

"But, my dad. He didn't know about werewolves or any of this, he really didn't."

"I can't say why she didn't tell him, Stiles. I didn't know her very well. I'm sure she had her reasons."

Stiles continues to alternate between gaping and rubbing his head, and Peter begins to sense something else coming from him.

Pain.

"Are you hurt?" he asks sharply?

"Huh? Oh...um...headache. I've been getting them a lot."

"Since the sacrifice?"

"...Yeah."

Hmmmm

*****

Stiles sits there shocked by the things Peter's saying. He wants to believe the werewolf is making it all up, or twisting truths to suit his own purpose, or anything, but...

But, now that he's forced to think about it, he remembers his mother's stories, tales of fantastical creatures from the old country. 

She never mentioned werewolves. That, itself, is kind of telling.

"Why are you telling me all this, Peter?"

"Because you showed up at the Nemeton today of all days."

"You gonna tell me what that means? Or are you planning to out vague Deaton here."

Peter snorts in amusement, then puts his raised foot on the floor and leans forward, elbows slipping to his knees. "Since making the mountain ash circle, have you done anything else?"

"Gone to school, run from various nasties, got hit a lot," Stiles replies facetiously, just to get a rise from the werewolf.

He gets an eye roll and grins. "Careful, Peter. They'll stick like that."

"Cute. I meant magic."

"I'm not a Druid, dude."

"Don't call me 'dude' and, yes, you are."

Stiles can feel himself gaping again, and...he's had enough. The ache in his temples has increased exponentially over the last fifteen minutes. The formerly undead is annoying him by breathing. And he's probably caught pneumonia despite the truly excellent soup and tea.

Glancing towards the window, he notices that the sky is lightening and the rain isn't pounding quite as hard.

"Storm's letting up. I'm going home to forget the last hour happened."

For a moment, Peter seems perturbed, then just sighs and gestures to the door. "Fine. I'll dry your clothes and drop them at your house tomorrow. Maybe a good night's sleep will find you thinking more clearly."

"Yeah, no, my dad's off tomorrow. Just drop them at Derek's. I have a key; I'll get them there."

"You haven't told your father about me?" 

Peter's mocking him and he glares at him. "Sure. I told him all about how you kidnaped me, his minor son, and made creepy overtures to me, his minor son." When in doubt, fall back on sarcasm."

Peter doesn't roll his eyes or look hurt or...The bastard just grins lasciviously at him.

"Creeper," Stiles mutters and climbs to his feet. 

"Think about what I said, Stiles. Think about what drew you to the Nemeton this morning," the older man calls after him. "And, when you're ready for more answers, you know where to find me."

"Creeping around a foggy graveyard, I'm sure," Stiles yells back as he grabs his keys from the table just inside the door and stomps in stocking feet out of the apartment. As soon has he splashes through the first puddle outside, he curses leaving his soaked and muddy shoes behind, but he can live with getting wet again for thirty seconds, if it means getting away from Peter.

And, possibly hard truths he doesn't want to face yet.

Driving home, he cranks the heat has high as it will go, pleased that for once it seems to be working, turns on the fog lights, and has the wipers on max. It's still raining hard and the streets are gushing with water, making him glad for the hundredth time he owns a jeep. The streets are basically deserted and half the traffic lights are out or flashing, so he makes it home in only about double the time as normal, and splashes up the walk to his front door.

By the time he gets inside, he's shivering again, and he quickly makes his way to the thermostat to turn up the heat a couple degrees, before trudging upstairs. A couple tylenol and a hot shower later, and he collapses on his bed and falls almost instantly asleep.

For once, it's a dreamless sleep.

*****

Peter spends the rest of the day on his computer and phone, tracking down information, reaching out to contacts all around the world, putting together research for Stiles. All the time he's doing it, there's a buzzing in the back of his mind and his wolf is content.

Something will grow between them. It's already sprouted, even if the boy--no he needs to stop referring to him as that because, if Peter is many nasty things, a pedophile isn't one of them--even if the young man denies it. At the touch of fang to wrist a bond formed. Peter's a bit perturbed he didn't realize it, but then he was dead for a while, then ever since returning has been struggling with so much. His body still isn't up to speed. His dreams are dark and murky, the scent of dust and loam always in his nose.

His grandmother, who taught him the resurrection spell, never told him the effects of being dead would linger so long.

An annoyance, but one he can get past.

Sometime in the afternoon the rain stops, the sun returns. He takes a break to wipe down a chair on his balcony and sit and contemplate. The gutters in the parking lot run with water; rain drops bead everywhere; the grounds are saturated, puddles forming in low spots. Beyond all that the Preserve sits--the primary reason he bought his condo here--trees mostly bare of leaves, groundcover going dormant. A light breeze brings the scent of mud and wet foliage, the sounds of distant animals emerging from their dens or sheltered places.

His wolf stirs, wanting to hunt, but he denies it. He's already been wet and muddy once this day. Beneath the will of the man, the wolf grumbles, but gives way. Peter smiles. His control has been spotty, but today things changed, shifted, blossomed.

Strength has begun to return. Casually he extends his claws, holds them before his glowing blue eyes. Until recently, all he could do with ease was flash his eyes. His beta form was impossible to achieve, even fangs and claws took all his energy. The last time he was able to manifest the latter, he killed Jennifer. He'd howled in pleasure, but it was short lived. The effort to kill her, feed the Nemeton, left him weak and panting for days.

He hopes that terrible weakness is long past.

He wonders if Stiles will bring him even more strength.

If the bond...if the bond becomes something deeper...

But the young man will have to want it as well.

*****

Stiles sleeps the day away and spends the evening and half the night playing WOW, immersing himself into a fantasy world where he's a heroic elf. For the first time, he's glad he never chose to be a magic user. After finishing a quest, he switches to his Xbox and shoots zombies until his eyes burn.

This time when he sleeps, he dreams of the Nemeton.

Of Peter.

Waking early on Sunday after a restless sleep, he stumbles down the stairs, mumbles greetings to his dad who's reading the paper and drinking coffee, frowns at the residual odor of bacon, then fills a big bowl with Fruit Loops and chomps his way through it while glancing at the comics.

His brain feels fuzzy and he can't make sense of Marmaduke.

"I have to head into the station in an hour."

Stiles jerks his head up from his nearly empty bowl. "You're off today."

His dad sighs and finishes his coffee. "The storm caused the bridge at 7th Street to wash out, there were nearly fifty car accidents, and someone took advantage of the power outage downtown and broke into the cupcake store."

"The one right next to the jewelry store and across the street from First National? Yeah, that makes sense."

"Most thieves aren't very bright."

Stiles snorts.

"I'll be back by dinner. Want me to bring Chinese?"

"Sure."

"Where'd you hole up during the storm?"

Stiles almost says 'Scott's', but the overly casual tone in his father's cop voice makes him think twice. "I was watering Derek's plants."

"Derek has plants?"

"Dying ones."

Now his dad snorts.

It's obviously an inherited trait.

After his dad heads out, Stiles dawdles over the paper, but can't concentrate. Finally giving up, he puts on clothes, makes a mental note to do laundry when he gets back or he's going to be wearing those horrible orange jeans he thought were fashionable to school the next day, then grabs his keys, wallet and phone and heads to Derek's loft.

Not to water the non-existent plants, but, he hopes, to collect this clean clothes, which could mean forestalling the laundry for another day. He wonders if Peter folded everything in his anal way.

Then he tries to remember what boxers he'd been wearing. God, he hoped nothing embarrassing like the Bart Simpsons' 'Eat My Shorts' ones or the holey Darth Vader ones.

Maybe someday he'll grow up and wear normal boring undies, but he kind of hopes he never does.

The loft is, not surprisingly, empty, and smells like stale air and dust. Flipping on the lights, he tries not to remember where Boyd died, where Jennifer laughed at his fear for his dad, and glances around, finally spying a neat pile of clothes on the big table. Crossing the room to grab them, he comes to a stuttering stop when he sees a red flash drive sitting squarely on top of the pile.

Yeah...no.

Virus, has to be infected with a virus. 

Still, he shoves it in his pocket before heading out and back home.

Where he spends the rest of the day doing homework and dithering over the flash drive. Four times he takes it out of the drawer he stuck it in and thinks about it. Once he almost inserts it in his laptop before something stops him.

His dad comes home and they eat General Tso's chicken and ginger beef straight from the containers while watching Sunday night football. They talk about inconsequential stuff. Denver beats the Patriots. And all Stiles can think about is the flash drive.

While his dad heads to bed, Stiles goes to his desk and stares at his laptop before swiping the mouse and bringing up Explorer. Before he can think twice, he shoves the flash drive in the USB port and waits for it to open.

When it does, revealing a long list of pdf and doc files, he runs a virus check on it and finds it clean, before he clicks on the first document.

And gets lost in a ton of research on druids, sparks, Nemeta, werewolves, Transylvania...and his own family.

*****

"Shouldn't you be in school?"

Waving the flash drive, Stiles shoulders his way past Peter into his apartment. 

"Why did you give me this? Why?" he demands, spinning around and flailing his hands.

Bemused, Peter shuts the door and heads to the kitchen where a fresh pot of coffee waits. As he pours two cups, he hears Stiles huff and plop down on one of the stools. "Milk? Sugar?"

"Yes, both, gimme."

Smirking, Peter hands over one cup and the sugar bowl before taking the milk from the fridge. He's less bemused and more appalled by the amount of sugar the young man dumps into his cup. "Are you sure you want coffee with your sugar?"

"Ha ha fucking ha." He grabs the milk and adds a dollop before diving into the cup. "Jesus, I needed that. I didn't get any sleep thanks to you."

Peter shrugs and takes the other stool to drink his black coffee. Stiles does look sleep deprived though still better than Saturday morning. "No one said you had to stay up all night reading the material I gathered."

Stiles gapes at him. "Do you not know me?"

He can't help but laugh. The young man reminds Peter eerily of his own teenage self. Sarcastic, downright snarky at times, and so very smart.

And lovely, even with bags under his eyes and a snarl on his face.

"What do you want me to get from all this?"

"The truth."

"And that'll help me how?" he demands. "Just because my ancestors were Druids and Emissaries doesn't make me either. Nor do I want to be."

"Are you sure?" Peter murmurs and sips his coffee. 

"I...I shouldn't be here." Stiles' shoulders deflate and he inhales more coffee. "I don't get what you want with me."

"You intrigue me, you always have."

"And that's not creepy," he mutters, staring into his now empty cup. 

"Even before you displayed any hint of power, you intrigued me, Stiles. On Saturday at the Nemeton, I realized why."

"Going to share with the class?"

"I do enjoy your sass."

"Jesus."

Grinning, Peter fetches the press pot and pours them both more coffee. "One should never deny their heritage, Stiles. No, you don't need to be a Druid and I doubt you want to be an Emissary."

"Be like Deaton? All enigmatic and vague and only caring about balance? No, I want to make sure the good guys win. The Pack. Scott."

"That's not a surprise to me. You don't need to be an Emissary to learn to use your power."

"I...in the research you did, my family, they could do amazing things. All I've done is make a mountain ash circle," Stiles says self-deprecatingly.

"From way too little ash."

The younger man flushes. "Um, yeah. I'm not sure how..."

"Deaton calls it a spark, but it is more than that. It's you, your belief, your desire and need. I dare say that with training and concentration you'll be able to do just about anything you want."

"That's...kind of scary."

"Yes, it's a power very easy to abuse. Someone of your potential needs not only a teacher but an anchor."

"Most Druids have a circle to do that."

"And we have Deaton and Morrell, neither to be completely trusted. But...what did you learn about werewolves and magic from my research?"

Interested, Peter half-turns to watch Stiles think before he speaks, something rare for him, but not when things are most important.

"Um...that werewolves are creatures of magic and can't do magic." Slowly his eyes widen and he stares at Peter. "But...you..."

"Come with me. I want to show you something." Sliding from the stool, Peter doesn't wait to see if Stiles follows him into his study. He knows he will. Going to his desk, he opens the top drawer and takes out a small framed photograph. It's faded with time, but the faces are still clear. He hands it to Stiles. "That's me and my grandmother, Magda. She wasn't a werewolf. She was a Druid priestess, and she was my teacher."

"You can do magic," Stiles says slowly, his thumb running over the image of Peter's grandmother.

"Yes. Because while I was born a werewolf, her genetic legacy manifested in me as well. We never knew why. She used to tell me that I was a blessing from the gods."

Stiles' eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. "You?"

"Grandmothers can be biased."

There's a rough bark of laughter, then Stiles hands back the picture. "So, you're a Druid?"

"No, I'm a werewolf, and an anomaly in that I can do magic. Nowhere near the level of power that she had or that you probably have, but what I can't do, I understand and can teach."

"Wait, you want to teach me?"

"I want you to reach your potential."

"Why?" Stiles asks bluntly.

"Because there's a bond between us, formed that night in the garage, strengthened when you threw a molotov cocktail at me, growing deeper and deeper with each day," Peter replies, completely honestly.

"You're crazy," is Stiles flat reply.

"Not anymore." Peter smirks and reaches out to place one hand on Stiles' cheek.

The bond flares to life between them.

*****

At the shock of what feels like electricity, Stiles stumbles back, but Peter follows, his hand never leaving his cheek, until Stiles is pressed against a bookcase. The wolf is warm and heavy, pressed along his front, and his hand is burning. Their eyes lock, Peter's so very blue, and Stiles gulps out, "Stop."

"Make me."

Anger flashes through him and, with an instinct he's never known, he lashes out.

Not physically. Stiles doesn't move, and yet Peter's shoved back hard, crashing into his desk and sending papers flying.

Gaping after him, Stiles slowly stares down at his clenched fists. But, they didn't touch the older man. His hands didn't move except to form fists. He...

Panic hits hard and he gasps for breath, clutching at his chest and dropping to his knees. This is impossible!

Peter's there in an instant, taking his shoulders in strong hands, kneading them as he croons, "Breathe, Stiles. In. Out. Slowly. With me. Breathe..." Stiles wants away, but the kneading feels good, and he's able to follow Peter's breathing and stave off the worst of the panic attack. Finally, a bit light headed and drained, he slumps and is caught up in Peter's arms.

This is so wrong.

He can feel...feel a connection and it's scaring him and it's exhilarating and...

"You...you threw yourself back. I didn't do that," he mumbles.

"Oh, Stiles," Peter chides. "You always accept what's right before your eyes. Your best friend turned into a werewolf and you were the one to tell him that. Don't deny your own ability."

He's pulled closer, until his cheek is pressed over the wolf's heart, and a strong beat fills his ear, and it should feel creepy and bad touchy but it doesn't. It's comforting.

So comforting that because of the exhaustion from little sleep and the panic, he dozes off.

*****

Bemused to realize Stiles has fallen asleep, Peter rises carefully, cradling him in his arms to carry him to the couch. The bed would be more comfortable, but Stiles is freaking out enough. As he carefully maneuvers him through the doorway, he notes how lightweight he seems. He'd already noted that Stiles' cheekbones are much more prominent than a couple months ago.

He wonders if the Nemeton is taking its price out on his strength and health. That will need to stop.

Placing Stiles on the couch, he unfolds a soft throw over him, then dims the lights before fetching himself more coffee and taking his normal seat. He can see well enough to read the novel he's been working his way through for nearly a week, but he's distracted by every twitch and noise the young man makes.

He's only out for about an hour before he wakes with a start and nearly flings himself off the couch.

*****

"Whu...where?" His head whips around and he stares at Peter before groaning and flopping back down. "Great. I fell asleep on you. That just makes my day. No year. No, life."

"I see your sarcastic tongue's still intact," Peter replies lightly, giving up on the book and setting down the dregs of his coffee. "It's actually pretty telling that you feel comfortable enough with me to fall asleep in my arms and remain asleep for an hour in my presence."

"Or I was just exhausted," he retorts, embarrassed and worried and a bit freaked. "I don't trust you."

There's amusement in the wolf's voice. "Note I didn't say that."

"So, what does this all mean, Peter."

A serious look crosses Peter's face and he's silent for a minute before finally saying, "I'm not completely sure. I think there's the possibility we're meant to work together. I have nowhere near the power you have, or the potential you have, but I do have the understanding of how to develop it."

"You're willing to teach me?" Stiles asks, skeptical, because a part of him is sure Peter must have a bigger plan. "You want to use me."

"I want to make sure you don't explode and take the town with you," the older man says bluntly.

"Like I've come close to that what with my not doing anything magical." Sitting back up, Stiles swings his legs over the couch and wraps his arms around himself.

"Because you haven't tried, but, be honest, Stiles, you will dabble now that you know. You won't be able to stop yourself."

"Well, you have a high opinion of me."

"I was very much like you at your age, though I'd been learning how to use and control my abilities for nearly ten years."

"You're up to something."

Peter grins. "I'm always up to something, Stiles. Wouldn't it be best if you kept me close?"

Rolling his eyes in disgust, Stiles stands up, shaking his body like a dog. "Where are my shoes. I'm out of here."

"They're by the front door, and you'll be back," he calls after him as Stiles stomps across the floor, grabs his shoes and heads out the door.

"No way," Stiles mutters. "Creepy zombie up to something bad guy. No way in Hell."

Stiles gets detention for missing the first three hours of school, but it's in the Library shelving books, something he doesn't really mind doing. The rote mindlessness of the Dewey Decimal System keeps him distracted from thoughts of magic and Peter.

But, once done and back at home, there's only so much reality tv and homework he can handle before he dives back into the research.

At least with his dad home for the night, he's forced to sleep, though he's not surprised that the Nemeton and Peter play a big part in his dreams.

His mom's appearance is a surprise. His dreams of her are usually memories from his childhood or about her illness and death. Here she's healthy and younger than he remembers, still a teenager, dressed in a long white dress, standing beneath the boughs of the massive tree at the center of a circle of other, smaller ones. Dappled sun hits her face, making it almost glow, and he's awed by her beauty.

Until she draws a knife from a pocket and cuts her hand.

Crimson blood drips from her palm, the tip of the knife, falling to a massive root. When she presses her hand to the bark, the tree seems to shiver.

From behind it comes a black wolf with red eyes.

The sound of alarm blaring jars Stiles out of the dream, but he doesn't feel sad or scared or just off as he has for weeks.

He feels determined.

His mom was magic. He's magic. Time to figure out what all that means.

*****

Four days later, Peter opens his front door at a hard knock to find Stiles holding a backpack stuffed with print outs and books in one hand and a bag of what smells like warm Danishes in the other.

"Okay, I can't sleep without dreams of the Nemeton and the town blowing up, which means I'm hardly getting any sleep at all, I'm pretty sure I failed a math test I didn't even remember I had yesterday, and my dad's mumbling about getting me help. Not for math. I'm so not going back to therapy. So, teach me."

Bemused, Peter follows the young man to the kitchen where he dumps the backpack on the floor and the bag on the counter, then starts digging for plates and forks.

"And, Scott knows I'm here and if I'm not home in one piece by dinnertime, he'll kill you again."

"He doesn't have the heart to kill." Peter opens the correct cupboard and takes out two plates, then puts the kettle on for more hot water. 

"He'll get Mr. Argent to do it."

Peter bares his teeth. "The Argents have tried twice now and failed both times."

"Yeah...um...sorry," Stiles mumbles, staring at the floor, before grabbing a mug for the rest of the coffee in the pot. Peter starts grinding more beans, flown fresh to him from Hawaii. "Didn't mean to bring up bad memories, just...y'know, don't kill me. I...I set our picnic table on fire yesterday."

Peter sighs. In this instance, he hates being right. "I knew you'd dabble. Did you have to start with fire?"

"I was trying to make a half-dead potted fern grow." Placing two cherry Danishes on a plate and grabbing his coffee and a fork, he takes what's becoming his stool and grabs the sugar bowl and the milk Peter left out as he was going to have granola for breakfast.

Danishes are so much better.

Such a joy that being a werewolf means he doesn't have to worry about cholesterol or high blood sugar. He puts an apple pastry on his own plate, then waits for the water to nearly boil before adding it to the pot of fresh ground coffee, before joining Stiles.

He takes a bite, smiling slightly at the explosion of apple and cinnamon on his tongue. Since his resurrection, food tastes so much better. He's indulged himself in all his favorites, but hasn't tried anything apple so far. Noticing that Stiles is well on his way to polishing off his second Danish, he sips his coffee and savors the mingling of flavors. "It's not going anywhere," he teases softly.

Fork half way to his mouth, Stiles stares at him, then rolls his eyes and shovels in the large bite, managing to chew and swallow before retorting, "It's just fuel. I've been expending a lot of energy."

"Yes, magic can do that if you're not careful and prepare for it."

"So, teach me how to do that."

Peter laughs softly. "So eager."

"Deaton warned us that giving the Nemeton power would make it a beacon again, drawing in the supernatural. We have to be ready for God knows what and if this spark of mine can be useful, can protect my friends and my dad, then I'm going to learn how to use it."

"And you shall, but it's not going to be easy."

"Nothing ever is," the young man mutters and slides from the stool to get more coffee. "How do I do this."

"Carefully push down the plunger."

"It's good," he reluctantly admits. "Better than dad's Folgers which tastes half-burned most of the time"

Peter shudders in horror, and Stiles snorts at him, then brings the pot over to the counter, pouring them both fresh cups. "Where do we start?" he asks as he retakes his seat and ruins the coffee with way too much sugar.

"No wonder you're hyper."

"Yeah, no. Coffee doesn't do that to me. If I don't make it super sweet and strong, it can actually make me dopey."

"Then why drink it?"

Stiles stares at him, then shrugs. "'Cause everyone else does. You might have noticed I don't fit in well with most of my peers."

"Do you want to?"

"...Nah. They're mostly idiots. If they're not jocks, they're stoners or party hounds. Don't get me wrong, I like playing lacrosse and having a beer or six at a party, but I know I'm smarter than ninety nine percent of my high school."

"Only ninety nine?"

"Lydia's smarter than me."

"Book smarts, but you have an intriguing intuitive way at looking at things. It'll serve you well with your magic." Setting aside his cup, Peter half turns to him. "A week ago, that morning, before the storm, there was wind and an earth tremor."

"Yeah, so?" Interest lights those amber eyes.

Peter smirks, holds out one hand, and calls a small wind. As Stiles' eyes widen in surprise, he sends it blowing through the young man's hair.

"Dude..."

"That morning," he continues, as he banishes the wind, "We were standing at two of the cardinal directions. It wasn't coincidence. There's no such thing where magic is concerned. I was at the East, where the element of air holds sway. Very few Druids or sparks have an affinity for all four elements. Most, just one that they're drawn to. Mine was always air. My grandmother's was water, the West. You stood in the North."

"That's earth, right?" 

"Yes."

"Did I...did I cause the earth to shake?" he asks, a bit awed.

"Probably. The two of us there together at the convergence, again, not a coincidence. I felt the power. You probably did, too, just didn't recognize it for what it is. I suspect that you may also have a calling to fire, the South, but we'll carefully explore that."

"Because I set the picnic table on fire?"

"Why were you trying to heal the plant?"

"I don't know." Stiles stares down at his empty plate.

"Think about it," Peter says, frowning slightly. "You do know."

There's a long silence before Stiles lifts his head and speaks. "I...I spent a whole day trying to figure out what to try first and then it just came to me to take the plant from dad's study and fix it."

"It's of the earth."

"Oh...yeah. Well, it burned up with the table."

"It may be that fire is your true calling. It would have been interesting if you'd been at the South that morning. We'll have to experiment."

"Jesus, I could have set the Nemeton on fire. That earthquake was scary enough!"

"It's highly unlikely that you can harm the Nemeton. I can't. But, if you can wield fire, we'll experiment carefully." Peter grimaces. "I'm sure you can understand that I'm not a fan."

"Erm...yeah. I think I'd rather it be earth, though I'm not sure what any of this really means."

"And so will begin our first lesson." Gesturing for Stiles to follow him, Peter heads to his study where he keeps his supplies locked securely in a cabinet and there's a permanent circle chalked beneath the easily removed rug.

*****

Stiles raises an eyebrow at the battery operated candles Peter places at four points of the circle. "Um, pretty sure that's cheating."

"It's about belief, Stiles. I don't use open flame if I can avoid it, but I believe the lights are foci and so they are. Sit there, at the North."

Folding himself down where directed Stiles stares at the fake candle in front of him and mutters, "Not sure this is going to work."

"We're not going to do much of anything today. I want you relaxed and accepting." He sits in the East.

"That sounds more than vaguely creepy."

Peter grins all teeth and holds out his hand which Stiles stares at for several seconds before heaving a sigh and taking. "Close your eyes."

"Completely creepy." But, he does as directed, listening to Peter as his voice drops to a murmur. It's all about centering, anchoring, focusing, and Stiles slowly goes from tense to relaxed as he listens.

The wolf really has a sexy voice.

That jerks him out of his calm, flooding his mind with too many thoughts. He hears Peter huff, feels his fingers tighten for a moment, then he starts to talk again.

Meditation. That's what this is.

Stiles doesn't meditate. His mind is too full, too active and frantic. He'll fail miserably.

"Stiles," Peter says soothingly. "Emptying one's mind is impossible. No one who meditates can do that completely, but you need to calm your thoughts, relax your muscles, be in the moment and the next. Breathe with me. In...out...in...out."

After a moment of struggle, he feels himself doing it, breathing in and hold it, letting it out slowly, repeating over and over.

And his mind calms.

Time must pass but he's not really aware of it. He's not concentrating on anything, not even the words Peter's saying, just the sound. Thoughts come and go. He should feel heavy, but he's not. He should be stiff, but he feels loose. He should feel weird holding Peter's hand, but it feels right.

Something is filling his body. It's power, but it's not. It's warm and cold and charging and releasing. He doesn't understand it, but he knows that's okay. It's better just to let it be.

It begins to move through him, sluggishly at first, but then easily.

With purpose.

"Open your eyes. Open your eyes." Peter repeats it, almost a chant, and finally Stiles obeys.

There's a small bowl of dirt in front of him and Stiles can feel the seed buried within. It wants to grow. He wants it to grow.

And it does.

*****

Peter feels the shock go through him as a green sprout appears in the dirt, unfurls into leaves then sprouts more stems and finally a tiny bud which opens into a simple sunflower.

It was a test, but one he was sure at which Stiles would fail. He's too new at this. It took Peter nearly three months to create his first small wind.

The sunflower grows another inch and Peter hears Stiles panting and squeezes his hand.

"Stop."

The young man shudders and Peter drags his eyes from the flower to his face, sees it pale and clammy, but Stiles' eyes are wide in surprise.

"Did I do that?" He pulls his hand free and the tension in the room dissipates. "Wow."

"I didn't expect that," Peter mutters almost to himself. 

"You didn't think I could." That comes out as a mixture of pride and aggravation. 

"No, not yet," he admits, picking up the bowl and examining the plant. It's real and alive and showing no signs of deterioration.

"Could I really blow up the town?" And now his voice is small and worried.

"Not with the control I'm going to teach you and not yet. You have incredible power, but you have to concentrate very hard to make it work. Just don't concentrate on blowing up the town."

Now Stiles does his usual eye roll and everything returns to normal.

But, he does know the young man very well and... "I need to have your word that you won't practice alone until I say that you're ready, Stiles. I mean it."

"Yeah, no, I won't, I swear. I...this is amazing and terrifying." His heartbeat is steady and he licks his lips nervously. "This really isn't bullshit, is it."

"No."

"Huh."

"How do you feel?" Peter starts turning off the candles.

"Okay. Kind of tired. Kind of wired, too."

"I was planning chicken salad for lunch. There's enough for two. As we eat, I'm going to tell you all about energy." Rising to his feet, he picks up the candles and Stiles takes the plant.

"This isn't going to explode is it?"

He can't help but laugh even if Stiles does shoot him an offended look. "No, it's a perfectly normal sunflower."

"They were my mom's favorite."

Which would explain why a sunflower had grown from a marigold seed.

*****

His dad works the evening shift three nights a week, so on those days, Stiles goes straight to Peter's after lacrosse practice. He spends all day Saturday there as well. The lessons progress much quicker than either expected, and Stiles' control goes from non-existent to shaky to hit and miss to ironclad within three weeks.

Somehow he refrains from practicing any magic by himself. He knows how important this is, and he knows how dangerous he can be. Peter spent one whole evening driving that fact into his head. Thanks to the sixteen hours of near death, there's a darkness inside him. Peter has his own darkness and uses it to teach him balance.

Not the kind that will prevent him from using his powers to help his friends, but more an equilibrium to keep him in the light.

Once he starts learning to focus and use his magic, the nightmares fade to happier dreams, so he gets more sleep. Peter feeds him hearty meals--the man can cook--and Stiles meditates in the morning and before bed. Despite his ADHD or maybe because of it, he becomes well focused.

On the night of the full moon Stiles' dad is called into the station to assist with a sudden rash of thieves breaking into cars, and so Stiles decides to drop in on Peter. He never runs with the Pack, so he figures he'll be home, and Stiles knows he has control of his wolf, so he's not worried.

When he answers the door, Peter's eyes are sharp and clear, but there's a strange tension in him.

"Stiles, I thought we were meeting tomorrow night at the Nemeton."

"Yeah, well, dad was called in. Um..." He rubs the back of his neck. "I know it's the full moon, but, well, you don't seem bothered by it. Look, I can go..."

"No. You're right. I'm in control and I have no desire to hunt down squirrels or rabbits like the rest of the Pack." He steps back and Stiles brushes past him, feeling the older man flinch back as he touches him.

The tension spreads to him. Was this a mistake?

"No magic tonight. Not under a full moon. You're not ready, but this is fortuitous, as we need to discuss something else."

Flopping down on the couch, Stiles looks up expectantly, and watches as Peter's eyes flash blue as he drops into his usual chair. He looks...disturbed. And Stiles realizes he's unshaven and barefoot, wearing only soft, old looking jeans and a faded red t-shirt. His eyes fade to their normal shade as he stares out the French doors into the night.

A million questions pop into his mind, but he holds his tongue and waits.

Because this is important.

*****

The full moon always makes Peter feel his most primal, but he has control of his urges and desires. His wolf wants to fuck and fight and feed, but he keeps the reins tight, letting it snarl and snap inside his chest and mind, but not take over.

Especially with Stiles sitting just across from him looking edible in all the best ways.

He's avoided talking about the forming bond in any but the most casual mentions, but, tonight, he can't keep it on the periphery. If he was a better man, he'd set it aside, but he's a narcissistic hedonist and what he wants, he gets.

He won't force Stiles into anything, but he's not above manipulation and seduction.

Scratching at the stubble on his cheek, imagining it raising a ruddy bloom on the young man's cheeks, thighs, ass, Peter sighs softly and begins. "I've mentioned there's a bond between us. I know you've felt it." When Stiles opens his mouth to protest, Peter holds up his hand. "Don't bother. It goes both ways. Do you know when it formed?"

Stiles' eyes drop, his cheeks flush, and he fidgets, then finally huffs out, "That night in the garage."

"You are frighteningly intuitive." He grins at Stiles' snort, but then sobers quickly. "Do you know what it is?"

"I know mates aren't a real thing and it's more than the pack bond I feel with Scott and the others. I feel that with you, too."

"Researched mating bonds, did we?" He can't help it. When the moon is full, he's even more snarky than normal.

Stiles glares at him and his wolf rumbles in want.

"Fine, you're right. Mates in that sense don't exist. Though we tend to be monogamous in our relationships, werewolves don't mate for life, don't pine away when their loved one dies, don't recognize them in an instant. None of that romance novel tripe. However," he stresses, "Something formed between us when my fang touched your wrist. It wasn't on a conscious level, but I recognized the power within you, and that power reached out to my own. When I...came back and we started to spend time together, it slowly made itself known. As I mentioned, magic users need an anchor. A person or a group of people are best, and another magic user is even better. After my grandmother was killed when the Nemeton was cut down, I floundered until my father sent me away to a small coven that would accept a werewolf amongst them."

As memories of that time as a young adult growing into his power and his wolf flood him, Peter pauses and takes a deep breath. "Among them, I found a lover who a few years later became my wife."

"You had a wife?" Stiles appears shaken. "The fire?"

The pain still so fresh, he can only nod briefly. "It wasn't just the loss of my pack, my own burns, even the abandonment by my new Alpha, that drove me to insanity, I lost my anchor and I fell apart."

"But...but, you don't have an anchor now."

"I do, Stiles. I have you." He almost smiles at the dropped jaw and widened eyes on the young man. "While a part of me recognized the potential inside you, if I'd bitten you that night, while I would have gained a strong Beta, I most likely would have lost everything else."

"I wouldn't have been able to access my magic."

"Probably not. No other bitten magic user in recorded history has."

"So, without your anchor, you would have slipped even further into crazy if you'd survived."

Peter nods. "And with you at my side, Derek never would have been able to kill me that night, and I'd have dragged you right along with me into that crazy, as you say. So, it's definitely better that I didn't override your wishes."

For a moment, silence falls before Stile takes the next logical step. "So, I'm your anchor and you're mine, but what does that mean? Your previous one was your wife. I'm..." And he turns bright red. "Not wife material!"

"No, but becoming lovers would solidify the bond between us. It's a magic in itself."

"Urk."

"Have I broken your brain?" He's teasing, but Stiles lashes back.

"Is this where this was always going, Peter? One big, long seduction? Using magic and knowledge to tempt me until I let you fuck me?" Jumping to his feet, Stiles heads to the door, and Peter quickly follows to block his exit, fascinated by the fury in his golden eyes and the hands formed into fists.

He is truly lovely.

"No, though if it ends up in bed, I won't mind." He's only half lying. The power, the anchor, the partnership are all more important. He can get sex anywhere.

Stiles tries to dart to the side, but Peter easily blocks him. "Get out of the way," he snarls.

"I'm not going to force you do anything, Stiles, but you're not leaving like this." Peter tries to speak calmly, but the moon is having its way with him, and his own temper is quickly fraying. As he blocks Stiles again, the younger man sends a fist flying at his face, which he easily catches.

The pulse racing beneath his fingers on the spot his fangs once rested, sends electricity through him and he shudders while Stiles struggles and curses.

And lightning arcs from his fingertips to Peter, but it doesn't burn, doesn't hurt. He can feel his eyes turn, his fangs distend, his body become energized, and his wolf howls.

Staring in shock, Stiles goes still, and then he's pressed against Peter, kissing him, his lips hard, his teeth biting.

And then he's gone.

Staring through the open door in surprise, Peter brings a tingling finger to his lips. It comes away dotted with blood. The tiny cut on the bow of his lip heals.

"Oh, Stiles," he growls softly, then smirks. "If you were wanting to break the bond, you failed miserably."

Blood magic is stronger than most.

*****

Stiles runs down the stairs, out the door, and doesn't stop until he's locked inside his jeep, panting and trembling from head to foot. Slumping forward onto the steering wheel, he closes his eyes and fights off the panic that's building.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

Groaning, he pushes back and thumps his head against the headrest twice. Idiot. Freaking idiot.

Dry mouthed, he licks at his lips and startles.

His lower lip stings at the corner and there's blood now on his tongue.

Peter's fang...

Crap, crap, crap. His teeth had scraped against Peter's lips, too. He'd tasted that blood while trying to devour his tonsils.

Blood magic.

Crap.

Swallowing hard, Stiles digs his keys out of his pocket and starts the engine. He needs to get home and shower for a couple hours and repress for the rest of his life.

And try not to blow up something from the energy pooling beneath his skin.

Halfway home, he has to stop the jeep, as his hands are shaking and crackling with freaky lightning. Spilling out the door, he falls and half crawls into a corner park and, there, on his hands and knees, let's the energy out.

Minutes, maybe hours later, he collapses onto soft grass surrounded by out-of-season flowers that will bloom and die before the full moon begins to set. Warmed by an internal heat, Stiles lays there until it finally fades and the cold of the night hits.

He doesn't remember getting home, but the next thing he knows it's eleven fifteen in the morning and he's in his bed, dirty and grass-stained, and so very confused.

*****

Peter's been on edge all day. He didn't sleep, too wired from the energy one bloody kiss created. It caused a constant breeze to swirl around him, until finally he ran for hours through the Preserve until the breeze became a wind that howled until it blew itself out, leaving him exhausted and tingling all over. Still, he greeted the setting of the full moon and the rising sun on his balcony with a cup of coffee and a worried expression on his face.

Then he distracted himself with grocery shopping, paying bills, getting his car washed--the mundanity of the chores for the most part keeping the worry away.

Now the moon is rising, just past full, yet still enough to energize him, and he stands at the Nemeton and wonders if Stiles will come.

Their plans were for them to meet there to see what Stiles can do with that energy. He's ready to take that next step.

But, will he show up?

A slight sound has him turning around to watch Stiles sheepishly shuffle down the narrow path to the Nemeton. Pride and pleasure flood him, but he forces himself to remain still and calm, his face impassive.

"Um...so, we still doing this?"

Peter nods.

Stiles rubs the back of his neck, then sticks his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, obviously fidgeting. "Are we going to talk about last night?"

"What did you do with the energy?"

He can see that the young man relaxes a fraction, looking relieved that Peter didn't bring up the kiss. "I ended up in Milton Park and brought a lot of now dead flowers to bloom."

Interesting.

"How did you know something happened?"

"Shared blood." Shrugging, Peter gestures to the North. "Take your place and let's get started." As he outlines the simple spell, he sets out real candles. "Once we center, see if you can light them without a match."

"Um, what if I lose control?" 

"I can use a wind to stop any flames that get out of hand."

"I thought you didn't want me playing with fire."

"I don't. This isn't playing, and we're outside. It's safe enough. The ground and trees are wet from the rain earlier today. I doubt you can light anything on fire accidentally."

"You have a lot of faith in me," Stiles mutters.

"I do."

The look of surprise turned on him sends a warmth through him, and he forces down a smile as he takes his place in the East.

*****

Stiles knows he's babbling, but he can't believe it worked. He lit the candles with his brain! And then they gave a few drops of their blood--not mixed--to the Nemeton, and performed a healing spell on the stump, bringing some of the now dormant small trees growing from it to greening.

He doesn't quite know how they ended up back at Peter's. He figured that if they could get through the spell with anything positive happening, they'd go their separate ways, but he's sitting on his stool drinking the best hot chocolate--milk and Godiva chocolate with some cream and cinnamon--and munching on homemade snickerdoodles. Apparently the werewolf bakes, too.

Peter's listening attentively, smiling softly, and Stiles know he should be wary, especially after the night before, but he's hyped up and pleased with himself. This time the magic didn't exhaust him or leave him strung out--probably due to him listening to Peter and doing only what he was instructed to do. He feels wired but in a good way.

Finally, he stops babbling and just eats another cookie.

"It feels good, doesn't it," Peter murmurs

"Better than I expected."

"And do you still think I want something nefarious from you?"

Peter's serious, and Stiles stills, then sets down his nearly empty mug before looking over at him. There's a couple feet between them and a half-full plate of cookies between their hands on the counter, but he feels weirdly close.

For the first time, it doesn't quite bother him.

"I dunno. I hope not, because, for the first time since Scott became a werewolf, I feel truly useful, like I can really help him with the fighting and the protecting and not just the researching."

"And that's important to you?"

"Yeah."

"All right."

The older man's being enigmatic again and it makes Stiles roll his eyes. "Whatever, dude."

Which elicits a smirk. "Channeling my inner Deaton."

Laughing, Stiles slips from the stool heads to the couch to sprawl out. "Got any decent movies? And I don't mean pretentious foreign language flicks or boring documentaries on the solar system."

"Cheeky brat," Peter laughs, but goes over to the DVD cabinet, opening it and stepping to the side with a bow. "You're confusing me with Derek who reads stuffy nineteenth century philosophers in French and Italian and doesn't own a tv."

Stiles sees brightly colored labels that are very familiar. "You have the original trilogy and all the Marvel movies. Peter, dude, your layers continue to surprise me."

"I also have the extended versions of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, a large selection of cheesy horror movies, and every Star Trek film and season. Oh, and Buffy."

"Marry me." As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he blushes and stammers out, "Um, how about Iron Man, the first one?"

As Peter takes it out and loads the disk into player attached to the fifty-six inch plasma tv, he says, "So, you like Tony Stark?"

"He's sarcastic and brilliant and doesn't take shit from anyone. Kind of like another snarky asshole I know."

"You'll make me blush."

Momentary discomfort dispersed by Peter's grin, Stiles laughs and hits the play button on the remote. If he's a bit surprised that Peter joins him on the couch instead of taking his usual chair, he'll happily explain that away as it being a better angle from which to watch the movie.

*****

The lessons and practice continue. The bond that Stiles can't ignore anymore continues to grow stronger between them, and, if in the dark of his bed, he sometimes jerks off to the memories of Peter's smile--or bare chest--he chalks it up to being a horny teenager and Peter being a hunk, because both are true.

They don't talk about the bond. Peter doesn't push anything--or try anything bad touchy or just plain bad--and Stiles relaxes to the point he was before the kiss.

And they're distracted from personal issues by the sudden influx of creatures that just keep coming. Within month they're all exhausted from fighting for their territory. First is a troll, then a band of really annoying faeries, followed by a harpy, a black witch who wants to use the Nemeton for something horrible, a bunch of Omega werewolves, but it's the ghouls, one who takes a small bite out of Stiles' arm after which Peter ripped it to shreds, that's the tipping point.

Peter takes him home, hands clenched around the steering wheel, nostrils flaring at the scents of blood and pain coming from Stiles, his wolf barely under control. He himself has dried ghoul blood covering him and it's going to take a complete detailing to get his car cleaned, but his first and only thought is fixing Stiles.

"We gotta do something," Stiles mumbles, curled into himself in the passenger seat, his torn jacket bunched up over the still bleeding wound in his arm.

"Like what?" he bites out, silently cursing himself because he's losing control. Stiles is hurt!

"Stop them from coming."

"You're not powerful enough."

"Together?"

"No."

"You said I could be the most powerful magic user in a long time," he protests.

"The keywords being could be. You're not there yet, Stiles." He takes the corner too fast, causing the young man to cry out in pain, and feels his fangs bite into his lower lip. Dammit. What the Hell is wrong with him? The bite was small. It probably won't even scar very much. He can clean it out, stitch it, give the kid some painkillers. He'll be fine.

"They'll just keep coming. We'll lose someone," Stiles mutters in frustration.

Probably. But, Peter keeps that to himself and pulls into the parking lot.

The wound needs six stitches. Stiles slugs back a couple shots of whisky before he toughs it out. After he's bandaged, taken two tylenol, and wearing a clean shirt of Peter's. he leaves him on the couch watching an infomercial while he takes a quick shower and changes into track pants and a clean t-shirt.

When he returns to the living room, he's gotten himself under control, but he takes his usual chair. If he sits next to Stiles, his wolf will make him cuddle and scent him, and he's been so good not to force anything on the younger man.

The bond between them, though, is thrumming with energy.

Stiles blinks bleary eyes at him and drains another glass of whisky, which seems to loosen his tongue. Peter really should feel badly about giving a minor alcohol, but a tipsy Stiles is kind of fascinating. "You're really good to me, and I know you want more, even though we don't talk about it ever ever, and I'm bad for stringing you along probably, using you for your brain even though you have a really sexy body and I sometimes think about jumping you, and the bond freaks me out sometimes, yet a lot of the time it makes me feel warm and comfy like I'm wrapped in my great-grandma's quilt that's so soft from hundreds of washings and kind of frayed on the edges and the stain from where I spilled grape juice is never coming out, and I miss her and feeling that way, so yay for that aspect of the bond, but the sexy part of it kind of freaks me out, because I know you said it's not a for life thing, but you'd want monogamy and I'm only sixteen and dude I've barely kissed anyone, and I barely kissed you, and you taste like coffee, did you know that, you probably drink more than I do, and it's not bitter at all which is kind of surprising and... Um..." He blinks again and blushes. "Oops." Before carefully setting the empty glass down on the end table. "Booze and Stiles are not good mixy things."

Truly fascinating.

"Do you want me to address any of that?"

The blush deepens. "Er...no?"

Peter grins and Stiles rolls his eyes in adorable annoyance.

*****

Hangovers are not fun. His dad giving him deeply suspicious looks over a breakfast of mostly coffee and greasy sausage isn't either. It's like the man is a werewolf himself and can sniff out just what laws Stiles broke.

School is its usual nightmare as he stumbles through the day, finally recovering enough to be mostly clear-headed by fifth period--after a lunch of mystery meat. The can of Sprite helped a bit more than the truly horrible food, giving him some energy and keeping his stomach settled.

It is a bit gratifying that Scott keeps sniffing his arm--which aches like a bitch, but he has to admit, Peter was surprisingly proficient at tending to and stitching wounds--and giving him sorrowful puppy eyes. He doesn't blame Scott at all, but something needs to be done.

No one has the answer, though, not even Lydia, who has developed alarming bags under her eyes from sleepless nights and stress.

They share the same unspoken worry that she will have to scream for one of them some day soon.

So, as soon as he's home, despite the great desire to crawl into his bed and burrito his blankets around himself and sleep for three days, Stiles throws himself into research.

*****

One benefit of being attacked by every random creature and monster in a bestiary is that Scott finally decides that training is a good thing, especially with squishy humans getting involved. Stiles' magic is often too unpredictable to be of much use, though he did set fire to the harpy's wings which brought it down so the wolves could dispose of it. And, too worried about everyone else, he doesn't think to protect himself. Lydia's honing her abilities, but they aren't much use in a fight. They're still not sure what the deputy is, though he is a crack shot and there are things that a bullet will kill or incapacitate. He joins in training when he can.

To his surprise, Scott asks Peter to lead it, and his wolf almost basks in the pleasure he gets from that request. He's still been on the periphery of the Pack, avoiding nights spent more watching movies and cuddling than strategizing, refusing to patrol with anyone when the Alpha finally instituted regular circuits of their territory. But the attacks against the Pack and the Nemeton have brought him fully into it.

He's aware that Stiles probably had something to do with that. While at first Scott was very uncomfortable with Stiles training with him, he's accepted that Peter's actually helping. Even Lydia only snipes at him half the time she speaks to him, which is better than not speaking to him at all and ignoring his existence. Understandably, the Argent Huntress is now the only one who does the latter, and she makes him nervous as well.

McCall's Pack is nearly as big as the Hale Pack when he was young. The twin former Alphas have finally been accepted and, while they can no longer join together, they're tough and strong, and killers--Scott is still squeamish about that. Isaac is a tolerable Second; if Peter has anything to do with it, he's only a placeholder until Derek returns which he hopes will be soon though his nephew is ignoring everyone's attempts to reach him and has never learned to clear out his phone's mailbox.

The new pup, Scott's first Beta, Liam, needs a lot of work. With him comes another human, but he drags along with him another wolf, one from Satomi's Pack. Peter's the one to introduce Scott to her. For the most part her Pack is integrated into the towns in Beacon County and they stay out of the line of fire. Most are pacifists, something Peter can't understand at all, but since the Hale Pack had managed to coexist with Satomi's with little tension, for the most part because the former held Beacon Hills and the Western part of the Preserve and Satomi's the Eastern part and the foothills beyond, he tolerates the few who live in his town. It's only courteous to alert her to the coming dangers, and since it gets them yet another teenage werewolf out of puppy love for a human, Peter doesn't press the issue of any of the others fighting. Most are horrible at it anyway.

Brett's at least athletic and eager to learn, if only to protect his new boyfriend. Peter will take it.

More interesting is the young kitsune who moves to town with her family--human father, very, very old kitsune mother. After being attacked by an Omega and displaying surprising powers--to her and her new friends in the Pack--she integrates well, and if Peter is the only one to see the adoring looks she gives their Alpha, he keeps it to himself. Time enough for love and relationships after they survive this mess.

So, he works with all the wolves and the kitsune, leaving the training of the humans in guns and hand-to-hand to Parrish and, reluctantly, Argent. Peter and the hunter manage to ignore each other nearly one hundred percent of the time.

It shouldn't surprise him, since he is the son of the Sheriff, but Stiles is proficient in the use of a gun, he just doesn't like them. He learns some hand-to-hand moves, but mostly he wants to use his magic. For the last couple weeks they've been working solely on offensive uses of the power. He can nearly control shaking the ground, and has mastered the use of causing trees and roots to erupt and bash into creatures. While he avoids fire because of the chance of it getting out of control, he can call it out of nothing if he has to.

Not surprisingly, Deaton, who seems to be acting as Scott's informal emissary, isn't pleased that Stiles has been learning from Peter, but the young man tells him to get stuffed in much more uncomplimentary words, which makes Peter feel smug and proud.

But, despite the training, they're losing ground. Even werewolves can't go without sleep for more than a day or two or keep fighting every night. Eventually something has to break.

It's a shock to everyone that it's the Sheriff getting clawed across the chest by a Wendigo that does it.

*****

HIs dad will be okay. Scarred, but he'll live. A claw punctured one of his lungs, and he was choking on blood when the EMTs arrived on the site of the old Hale house where the Wendigo had been hiding in the underground tunnels. Three hours of surgery and two pints of blood later, he's facing a week in the hospital and pain and...Stiles just can't.

His hands are still smeared with his father's blood, dried and flaking to the floor of the waiting room, but he refused to go to the bathroom to clean up in case a doctor came in with news. Peter's a comforting presence beside him while Scott paces and Parrish stands guard. Everyone else went home with their own wounds to tend and the Alpha's keeping them updated with texts.

Looking tired after a long shift and her own fear for her friend, Melissa comes in and sits down on the other side of Stiles. "He's awake and they're moving him to a room in the cardiac care wing."

No.

"His heart?" Stiles chokes out, clutching at Peter's arm as he turns to his best friend's mom.

"It's a precaution, Stiles," she gently replies. "He came out of the surgery in AFib, but it's most likely a reaction to the trauma and the anaesthesia. I'm confident he'll return to normal sinus rhythm in a few hours, but if he doesn't, that's why he's in cardiac care. You should go get cleaned up and then I'll take you up to his room."

"O-okay. I..." When he stands, though, he nearly falls and Peter's there, arms around him, holding him and walking him down the hall to the nearest bathroom. After he washes his hands and splashes water on his face, he feels a bit better, enough to turn to the older man and say, "I'll be okay. You don't need to stay any longer."

"Yes, I do."

Their eyes meet and Stiles sees both the strength and the weariness in Peter's.

"This has to end. We have to do something to stop the influx. I...I can't lose my dad, Peter."

"What are you proposing?"

"I don't know, but I'll figure something out. It's what I do."

Peter nods. "Okay, let's get you to your father."

"I mean it, Peter."

"I know you do, but, Stiles, you're exhausted and you're not powerful enough."

For the moment, Stiles accepts that, as well as Peter's arm around his shoulders to keep him upright, but if it's more power, there's a way to get it.

Considering how good the older man's arm feels around him, it won't be a hardship. And it's not something he's freaked by anymore. He and Peter have grown so close, it's probably inevitable.

It probably always was.

As he settles in a chair next to his dozing father and Peter fetches him food and water before retreating to the waiting room down the hall for however long he's needed, Stiles lets his mind drift over the things he's learned.

One of Peter's early lessons was that all energy is the same, it's just the source which differs and the use to which it can be put. You can store it within yourself for short periods of time, even build it up from different sources.

Stiles has been experimenting, testing how long he can hold it, how much, developing a magical stamina, but he's reached a plateau. Seeing the lightning arcing from his fingertips had given him the idea of acting like a battery. Right now he can hold the energy on the level of a lightning bolt for nearly an hour. Consummating the bond should triple the time and the power level.

It'll be enough.

As he watches his dad hooked to machines, on an IV, in pain despite the meds, finally drift to sleep, he remembers the week before when Scott healed much slower than normal from another troll attack. His own ribs are still bruised from the blow he took, and Lydia's having nightmares from holding in her scream when Allison went down and stopped breathing for nearly three minutes. None of the Pack is anywhere near one hundred percent, and now his dad is hurt.

It's time.

Tomorrow is the half moon. It will be enough.

Melissa comes in and places a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Stiles, he's going to sleep into the morning. You need to go home and get your own rest. I promise I'll call if there's any change, but he really is going to be okay."

He hates it, but she's right. He'll need to be rested for the next night. Still, he grumbles as she urges him up and out. As he shuffles down the hallway, he's not surprised when Peter follows him outside and into the jeep someone brought to the hospital.

"You're thinking very deep thoughts. Your father's going to recover."

Turning the key, he pulls out of the parking lot and heads down the street, his fingers tapping on the wheel and the gearshift. "I know, but this never should have happened. This is the reason I lied to him for nearly a year." He smacks one hand down on the steering wheel in frustration.

"The only thing I can think of is to destroy the Nemeton but I'm not even sure that's possible, nor do I want to do it. It's the wrong way to go."

"Yeah, I know. We're both tied to it. Destroying it could kill us, and I for one am not ready to die."

"So...?"

It comes to him in a flash, arcing through his muddled mind like the lightning his magic creates. 

"We put up a barrier around the Nemeton, blocking it from the supernatural."

"Making it go dormant is almost as good as killing it." Peter's voice is flat.

"No, I don't want it going dormant. I want it to be ours alone because everyone and everything else is drawn to it and wants to fuck with it," he snaps back.

"You don't have that kind of power."

"...Yet." Stiles gives a quick glance over and sees the interest on the older man's face.

"You've been resistant."

"I...I wasn't ready." Shit, he's stammering and starting to sweat.

"It still won't be enough."

"I'll make it be enough. And I'm going to summon lightning right after. Energy is energy."

Peter sighs. "Stiles, tantric magic is not something to be played around with. You don't start with the impossible."

"You're the one who's been trying to convince me for months that nothing for me is impossible. I've tried to come up with any other way, but that kind of energy is the strongest for a reason."

"If we do this, everything changes," Peter says distantly, and Stiles sees that he's now looking out the side window, his face in shadows.

Frustrated, Stiles lashes out, "I know you want me. Why are you being reluctant now?"

"Maybe I don't want to have sex with you just to save this fucking town," Peter lashes back.

...Oh.

As he pulls into Peter's parking lot, he can feel himself flushing, and mumbles, "It's not just that." Stopping the car, he pockets the key and presses his forehead down to the top of the steering wheel. "I'm scared, okay? But, yeah, it's taken me a while to admit...but I've been wanting...this. You." Taking a deep breath, he lifts his head and turns to find Peter watching him cautiously. "I'm sixteen and horny and a virgin and scared, okay? You're...not any of that!"

Peter's lips twitch and Stiles growls, "If you smirk, I'm punching it off your face."

So, Peter laughs instead and wraps one hand in the front of Stiles' jacket to pull him into a deep, hungry, wet kiss. Stiles gulps and whimpers and kisses back, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the other man, until finally, gasping for air, he pulls back to find Peter's blue eyes blazing brilliantly.

"We are going to be such a force, Stiles."

"We've been dancing around this for months Peter. You've been amazingly good about not pushing me, not trying to seduce me. I really thought you would go all pedo pervy on me, but you haven't. I think that's why I'm ready."

"If we use tantric magic to consummate our relationship, it'll strengthen the bond, give both of us more power, but, Stiles..."

"Yeah, I know," he replies soberly, because of course he's done the research. Sex magic between two anchors won't make them eternal soulmates, but it'll be damned hard to ever be with anyone else unless they break the bond, and doing that is a long, painful process which could wipe out most of their magical ability. "Werewolves are monogamous anyway."

"You're not a werewolf. I don't have an issue with being only with you, but you're only sixteen, Stiles. If you were a wolf, you'd be mature at that age, which is why a pack of werewolves can function as well as ours does, but you're human. I'm not really bothered by your age. Your mind is far more mature than your body, and that's what attracted me first, but it is illegal."

"Like that's a problem for you?"

Peter shrugs. "Well, it might be an issue with your father, our Alpha, everyone else."

"One, I'm not telling my dad! Jesus, he has wolfsbane bullets now. You'd be dead and I'd be grounded for life within an hour of him finding out. Two, Scott can get stuffed and so can everyone else. This is my--our--life."

"I am so attracted to you right now." Smirking, Peter kisses him again, leaving him breathless.

"You're an ass."

"I do have a magnificent one."

Laughing, Stiles presses his forehead to Peter's and hugs him tightly. "We probably deserve each other. Two asses in lust."

Peter doesn't respond, just kisses him again, more tenderly this time, and Stiles knows this is the right decision.

*****

Peter cedes his bed to Stiles--the young man will need all the strength he can muster for the night to come--while he naps on the couch for a few hours before diving into research. While he's confident in Stiles' research skills, he wants to fact check everything. The end result they're aiming for is too important to mess around with half-thought out plans.

When Stiles wakes up mid-morning, they agree to meet a half hour before moonrise at the Nemeton. He blushes adorably when Peter says he'll purchase the necessary required items, and stammers about condoms as a detriment to the magic, forgetting that werewolves can't carry or contract disease.

After a brief and hilarious discussion over the fact that male pregnancy is a thing of the internet and torrid stories, he heads out to see his dad, eat, shower, get more sleep, and Peter spends an hour meditating before doing the same.

Asleep, he dreams of a future where the world is overrun by the supernatural, starting with Beacon Hills and spreading across the globe. He sees himself bathed in blood, surrounded by the bodies of his Pack--old and new as dreams are rarely linear. Stiles is draped across his lap, older, thinner, his heart ripped from his chest. The sky crackles with lightning. The world grinds to an end.

Waking shaken, he's more determined than ever to give Stiles every assistance in preventing anything like that, and, as he showers and dresses, he wonders what happened to his grand plans to become an Alpha again, Stiles at his side but not his equal. That urge is just...gone, replaced by a desire for something real for the first time since his beloved wife was murdered.

No schemes, no manipulations, and without those, he never expected to reach this point in his relationship with Stiles, and, yet, here they are, about to take that step.

No longer teacher and student but partners.

He's amazed at how good that thought makes him feel and his wolf rumbles in contentment.

Late in the afternoon, Peter packs provisions, both magical and ordinary--candles, a ritual knife, blanket, snacks and plenty of bottles of water. After a light supper, he heads out, stopping at the Walgreens at the edge of town to pick up other certain supplies, before driving to the parking area closest to the Nemeton.

He's actually tingling in anticipation.

*****

After spending several hours with his dad, several more trying to catch up on sleep--school be damned; his dad had a punctured lung, he can skip--Stiles fills his belly with his illicit stash of chocolate poptarts before showering again, carefully washing areas he's not really used to paying that much attention to. Of course being a curious boy--man, he's a man, gotta remember that--he's fingered himself, stretched himself open, but he never seriously thought he would dive straight into full blown gay sex his first time.

Life, man, it's crazy sometimes. Pretty much all the time when it's his life over the last year.

As he dresses, a thought hits him. They hadn't actually discussed the logistics of the sex. He just figured he'd be the bottom, but, shit, what if Peter wants him to be on top? The magic tomes he'd scoured over hadn't revealed any necessary preference. It wasn't like they needed hymenal blood--good thing because that is so not happening, despite the spell he stumbled over that could temporarily change his gender. Crap, if he's the fucker and not the fuckee, he's so going to mess this up.

Just before he starts hyperventilating he remembers that Peter is an alpha male even if isn't an Alpha wolf anymore. Dollars to donuts he'll want to top.

Of course that thought leads to all kinds of fears of pain and discomfort and sucky sex and...

He really needs to get going and stop thinking.

As he heads downstairs, he snorts to himself. Like that is ever going to happen.

The sun is setting by the time he reaches the Preserve. Peter's car is in the lot, the hood still warm, so he's not too far ahead of him. It's about a mile and a half walk to the Nemeton--amazingly close to the road, but magically hidden to normal humans--so Stiles heads that way, thankful it's an unseasonably warm Winter evening. Being bare assed naked in subzero temperatures would suck.

When he arrives at the Nemeton, it's gotten dark, but there are a couple of battery powered lanterns lighting the small clearing. Peter's set candles at the cardinal directions and is spreading a blanket over part of the stump between a couple of the small trees growing from it. It's not going to be comfortable, but better than getting splinters in his knees or butt.

As he finishes, the wolf gives him a small smile, and Stiles knows his return one is brittle. He's nervous and not quite sure if it's because of the pending sex or the spell. Both are going to be intense, and he's regretting a bit that he didn't go find some random guy to have sex with before deciding to lose his virginity to his magical anchor in order to use the energy generated to do something he's still not completely convinced is possible.

"You can do this, Stiles," Peter encourages. "It's all about belief." He must still look sceptical because Peter sighs as he comes over to him. "Remember the sunflower you grew from a seed that first day we meditated and set the circle?" At his nod, Peter grins. "It was a marigold seed."

What?

He feels his jaw drop and amazement flood him and, then, all of a sudden he knows he can do this, and he wraps himself around the wolf.

*****

Peter can feel the moon beginning to rise as they separately remove their clothing and go through a simple ritual cleansing. Knowing how uncomfortable Stiles undoubtedly is with being nude, he doesn't stare, but notices the younger man is very nicely shaped, muscles developed but not bulky, shoulders broad, waist tapered. While he's fidgeting, he doesn't try to cover himself, and Peter surreptitiously admires his cock. It's not as long as his own, but thicker. His own twitches at the thought of that girth and the even thicker head pushing into him.

While in the past he's preferred to be on top, he's bottomed as well and enjoyed it, preferring men with big dicks.

Oh, the future holds a lot of potential, as long as they can survive to reach it.

"So, um...How do we do this?"

Peter cocks an eyebrow at him that earns him an eyeroll--which immediately relaxes the nervous young man.

"Ass."

He grins. "You've done the research. Regular sex will solidify the bond between us. With the cleansing, the sharing of blood, the burning of the incense you created, and, well, orgasms, you'll be able to strengthen the bond threefold which will allow you to produce more energy and hold it longer. So will I. Together we should be able to raise the barrier. It may need to be reinforced on occasion. I don't foresee that being a hardship." His chuckle elicits another eyeroll, but Stiles is relaxing more and more.

"Since I have had sex, I undoubtedly have better control, so I suggest that I top."

"Yeah, good, internet porn probably isn't that reliable a source," Stiles mutters as he goes to prepare the four bowls of incense and places one next to each candle.

"We're not supposed to talk during the sex, but if I'm going too fast or hurting you, you have to let me know."

"How?" 

Peter's thought about this. Normally, he's suggest pulling his hair, not something he's a fan of, but for optimum effect, Stiles will be on his hands and knees. "Natural elements are welcome during the ritual." Taking a red carnation from a bag, he hands it to Stiles. "Throw this in my line of sight."

"Huh, clever." 

"Ready?" Stiles nods. "Okay, kneel on the blanket and center yourself, then light the candles one by one."

As Peter watches Stiles obey, he can see the goosepimples rising on his pale skin, but he can't join him and warm him until the next stage. Stiles' eyes close, but Peter keeps his own open to watch, grounding himself as he does, feeling his wolf respond to the nature and the magic surrounding them. The balance of the half moon is the perfect time for this kind of magic. It will aid them both in staying in control. He feels it rise and a howl bursts from him, surprising him, but Stiles remains calm.

His golden eyes open and the candles light one by one, followed by the incense, the aromatic smoke quickly filling his nostrils and making him hum in pleasure. Taking the knife, Peter steps onto the Nemeton and takes his place kneeling in front of his soon to be lover.

Though shivering slightly, Stiles is remarkably calm, but then Peter's noticed that the power can do that to him. When he holds out his right hand, Peter draws the blade across his palm, then hands him the knife to repeat the process on him. The mingled scents of their blood with the incense make his eyes flash, and when Stiles presses their palms together, the energy flares bright and warm. As it envelops them, the younger man turns onto his hands and knees, spreading his legs slightly. Peter watches him place the carnation in reach, watches a shudder go through him, but he's not backing down.

Reaching behind a sapling, he takes the bottle of lube and coats his fingers, before kneeling on either side of Stiles' legs. He places his dry hand on the swell of his buttocks, hears him gasp softly, then slides a finger between the crack, revealing his pucker. Holding him exposed, Peter slowly pushes one slick finger into him. When it's fully seated, he glances at the flower next to Stiles' hand, then sees the younger man nod, and pulls the digit out before pushing it in harder.

Stiles gasps again, trembling, but accepting. After a few minutes of that, Peter adds a second finger and as the two sink past his second knuckles, his own desire rises. He knows Stiles is fighting his instinctive need to babble, and he can't wait until they're free to do this with him talking and cursing and...

His cock throbs and, as he starts to spread his fingers in the tight heat, he takes hold of it, squeezing the head lightly, bringing himself to erection. Glancing up, he notes that the moon is moving overhead. While they have till it sets, there are optimal times and one of them is in about ten minutes or so.

He pushes a third finger inside, eliciting a groan from Stiles which makes him stop. But, the flower remains on the blanket, so he starts to pump gently. Twisting slightly, he catches sight of Stiles' face, his eyes closed, his lips parted as he pants softly. His fingers are tugging at the blanket and as Peter's fingers form a cone and push deep, he arches back into the touch.

Peter reaches for the lube, pours a bit over his fingers so he can push it inside Stiles, then coats his dick, pumping it at a quick pace, as he starts to breathe hard as well.

He wishes he could press heated kisses all over the skin flushing beneath him, but there will be time for that later.

He's more and more certain of that.

Slowly Peter removes his fingers and replaces them with the head of his cock. Taking Stiles' hips in his hands, he presses into him.

The carnation doesn't move.

Stiles does, pushing back and moaning, a low, needy sound, and Peter growls in response. Two more shallow thrusts and he buries himself inside. Tight muscles clasp at him, Stiles shakes and pants, head down, but there's no scent of pain or fear.

Just need.

As they rock together on the Nemeton, the moon bathes them, and it's only a few minutes before Peter feels the energy building. His balls tighten, his body pulses with sparks of pleasure, and he lets loose a howl that reverberates around them.

Stiles groans and shoves his hips back, his passage tightening, and Peter comes, spilling into him. He pulls out quickly, jerking the last of his semen into his still bleeding palm--the magic which has kept the wound from healing makes his skin tingle and it's not as gross as Peter thought it would be--then sits back on his heels, gasping and trembling. 

The energy is spinning between them, making the air feel heavy and charged, and from hooded eyes he watches Stiles rise on shaky legs and turn on his knees. He's half-hard and Peter watches him pump his cock until he comes with a cry. Some of it spills onto Peter's knees, some into his hand wet with his own cum and blood, the rest into his own bleeding palm. The magic will stave off any infection in the human. This step is primal at its core, and the mixture of their essences sends a wave of power over them both. 

Both shaking from head to foot they press those hands together again and the energy explodes from them and into them. While he feels stronger magically than he ever has, Peter watches in amazement as Stiles' eyes go molten. His fingers wrap around Peter's and he throws his head back, crying out wordlessly to the moon.

From thin air, lightning hits him, bathing him in gold, not harming them, or through their connected hands, Peter. When his other hand reaches out, Peter takes it as well and the connection is finalized, the bond set in stone.

Stiles lowers his head, his eyes locking on Peter's, and words erupt from him--not really needed, but a focus for the energy.

Peter repeats them and they chant over and over, the power building until finally, Stiles channels it out of them and into the air, encircling the Nemeton. Beneath them, the Nemeton shudders, and around them the dormant saplings come to life, greening up and growing two or three feet in height, pressing into their small nest.

Pushed together, they shake with the release of power and finally collapse, Stiles curled beneath his broader body.

Again, he howls, in pleasure and exhaustion, and Stiles moans in answer, before everything falls still and silent.

One by one the candles wink out, the lanterns too, as if their batteries were drained, until only the moon is left to light them.

*****

His entire body both aches and feels alive. As Stiles comes back to himself, he winces and groans, then slowly pulls away from Peter's who wrapped around and over him. The wolf's blue eyes open, a smile of wonder forms on his face, and he cups Stiles' cheek.

"Did it work?" Stiles groans. Glancing around, he notices the green and taller trees, the flowers blooming, and can only go, "Oops?"

"Side effect." Peter sits up and runs a hand through his hair, then looks up at the half moon. Stiles' eyes go up as well and he startles. The moon is much farther to the West than it was when they began.

"How long were we um...whatever we were doing?" After, he means. The sex itself didn't take very long, but during the spell and afterwards only felt like a few minutes. He knows he didn't sleep.

"We're a few hours until dawn, so half the night." Shrugging, Peter rises gracefully and reaches down to haul Stiles up as well.

His lower back pulses with near-pain, and he groans and rubs at it. "Jesus."

"I hurt you."

At Peter's concern, a frown replacing the smile, Stiles quickly shakes his head. "No. Well, yeah, but it's a good hurt. I'm okay. Just, y'know, new to all this." A chill wind hits him and he shivers. "And fucking cold. And really hungry." Pulling away from Peter, he shuffles awkwardly between the small trees and off the Nemeton, wanting his clothes, and about four quarter pounders and a wheelbarrow full of curly fries. As he jerks on his clothes, he feels Peter beside him doing the same, and together they pack up the site. Peter hands him a bottle of water and a sandwich which he downs and munches his way through, the wolf doing the same, as they walk slowly back to their cars.

"How do you feel besides the aches from sex?"

Feeling himself blush, Stiles chokes down the last bite of ham and cheese, and shrugs. "Really tired, but also, kind of energized still and..." There's something there, between them. "The bond solidified. It feels like this warm ribbon connecting us."

"That's as apt a description as any. It binds us together, but not in the way where we could never be apart. It's just, we'll turn to each other first for support, both magically and for mundane reasons. While we won't feel the other's emotions, we'll be more sensitive to each other."

"And we'll want to have sex?" He knows he sounds a bit too eager, but, despite the aching in his ass and thighs, he feels great.

Peter smirks and Stiles rolls his eyes. "Ass."

"I saw you sneaking a peek at mine earlier. Told you it was magnificent."

He can't help it. He laughs and when Peter wraps his free arm around his waist, he goes with it, enjoying the support and the warmth.

It's good.

"The sandwich was fine, but I could eat half a cow."

"I have steaks marinating at home. Not a typical breakfast, but it'll take only ten minutes or so to grill them."

"And then sleep for a week?"

"Well, I'm sure you'll want to go see your dad at some point."

Crap, his dad, he pretty much forgot. Digging his phone out of his pocket, he checks, relieved to find no messages from Melissa who promised she'd call or text him if there was any change. "Yeah, um, maybe around four hours sleep, then hospital visit, then more sleep. I called myself out of school tomorrow and then it's the weekend. Plenty of time to recover." And, hopefully have more sex. Lots more sex.

Leaning close, Peter murmurs hotly in his ear, "Such a delightful blush. You're thinking of sex, aren't you?"

"Horny non-virgin here."

"Well, you're in luck. Being a werewolf, I have remarkable refractory time, and despite the earlier quickness, typically I can fuck for about an hour straight."

"Jesus," he breathes, cock twitching in his pants. "You'll kill me."

"But, what a way to go."

Stiles chuckles tiredly and leans more into Peter as they walk. "How will we know if the barrier went up?"

"If things stop coming here."

"Yeah, but I feel...something."

"So do I."

Good, it's not only him. 

*****

Three days later nothing new has come to town to attack the Pack or try to access the Nemeton. After a week, still nothing, and the alarms he and Peter went back the day after the ritual to set around the tree remain silent.

At one month of peace, Stiles finally relaxes.

He and Peter celebrate at the Nemeton, this time with completely normal and amazing sex, and Stiles doesn't even bitch about the splinters in his ass...much.

End


End file.
